


the one where aziraphale loses his voice

by thealienmeme



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, aren't all of my fics at this point indulgent post-armeggedon fics?, indulgent post-armeggedon fic, just really sweet fluff, some light fighting, yes - Freeform, yes they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 17:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealienmeme/pseuds/thealienmeme
Summary: some bad weather causes aziraphale to lose his voice and crowley, ever the opportunist, cannot pass up the upper hand this gives him to be a little shit while aziraphale can't scold.





	the one where aziraphale loses his voice

**Author's Note:**

> hey it’s ya girl back at it again with the self-indulgent fics. saw a fic prompt on tumblr where one of the couple loses their voice and this monstrosity was born. once again, didn’t plan on it being this long, but I should expect that of myself at this point. 
> 
> Check out my other GOmens fics and look me up on tumblr by the same name (thealienmeme) for absolute shit content

The sound of fat, English raindrops unpleasantly filled Crowley’s ears. 

You’d think that after all these years,  _ millennia _ even, of living on Earth (and in Britain) he’d be used to it all - the frigid, wet air, the feeling of wanting nothing more than to stay inside, and the reduced speeds at which drivers tended to go in such weather*. 

* _ Really? _ Crowley thought while beeping his horn at the car puttering in front of him.  _ 35 mph? It’s only a drizzle, people.  _

But no, every new storm felt exactly like the first. 

Well, maybe not  _ exactly _ like the first _ .  _ There was the missing angel wing shielding him from the rain, for starters. Which Crowley was on his way to rectify right this very moment. 

Pulling up to the bookshop never stopped feeling like coming home. The glow of the dim yellow lights emitting from the windows elicited a feeling of warmth in Crowley’s chest that was really quite too cheesy for his own tastes, but it happened regardless. 

Knowing damn well that there weren’t any customers out in this horrid weather,* Crowley burst through the doors with as much force as the wind picking up outside. 

*And, frankly, not caring if there did so happen to be a customer or two who chose the shop as a safe haven from the storm. There weren’t, but let it be known that if there  _ were _ , he still very much wouldn’t care. 

“Angel!” Crowley called, cupping his hands around his mouth. He knew Aziraphale was probably close by and that the amplification was less than necessary, but he wanted his presence to be very much known. 

Walking through the dusty old bookshelves, Crowley ran a hand along spine after spine after spine until he came to Aziraphale’s small desk and there, practically covered in a layer of dust himself, sat his angel. 

Crowley stopped at that thought. 

_ His _ angel. Felt a bit odd after thousands of years of being denied even the simple label of “friend,” but things were different now in this post-Armeggedon world. A soft lopsided smile took over Crowley’s face as he remembered the shenanigans that lead up to them finally being on their own side. All it had taken was the threat of the end of the world as they knew it and a rag-tag group of humans plus one very excited hellhound. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley crooned as he put a hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Do you ever plan on getting up?” 

Aziraphale jumped slightly at the touch and looked up at Crowley, and man, this was a sight Crowley would never grow tired of. The crinkle of blue eyes, the lifting of soft brown eyebrows, the stretch of pink lips into a grin so wide and pure and blinding that Crowley might as well have been looking into the sun during an eclipse. 

“My dear-” Aziraphale started and then stopped short. Rather than the soft, lilting voice that usually came out, a rough, ragged one had replaced it. 

“Oh, Angel, how long have you been sitting here? You sound like you’ve been smoking a pack a day for 15 years.” At this, Aziraphale opened his mouth, with a tell-tale finger pointing up in a manner that said, very loudly and clearly, that he was about to start his sentence with “Well, actually,” but Crowley cut him off before he could get it out. 

“Yes, yes, I know - you haven’t smoked since the 80s,” Crowley rolled his eyes. Aziraphale had been extraordinarily better at quitting that bad habit than Crowley - another stupid human trait they had both picked up. “But seriously, Aziraphale, you sound terrible.” 

While Aziraphale and Crowley were occult* beings who didn’t die, they were subject to the occasional cold. Bodies can only take so much before succumbing to a bruise, an itchy elbow, and, yes, a runny nose here and there. 

*Or ethereal, depending on whether or not a certain angel with a penchant for tartan bowties and waistcoats was around to hear. 

Aziraphale mouthed an “oh dear” before slowly getting up from his seat. Unfortunately, limbs falling asleep was also something these bodies sometimes experienced, leaving Aziraphale to trip over himself as the pins and needles took over his lower half. 

Lucky for him, an attentive demon was nearby. 

“Maybe we should get you to bed,” Crowley said, clutching Aziraphale’s arm. 

He shot Crowley a suggestive glance. 

“Oh, not like that, you bastard,” But Crowley couldn’t help but smile in return. “What were you getting up for? Tea? I can make you tea, just stay here one second.” 

Crowley made his way to Aziraphale’s small kitchenette and turned on the kettle. It wasn’t plugged in, but we don’t need to tell them that. It worked simply because they both believed it would and that’s fine enough for now. 

After adding just the right amount of sugar and milk, Crowley returned to the backroom and found Aziraphale wrapped up in a fluffy blue blanket with the fireplace burning. He pressed the tea into the angel’s hands and got another smile and a kiss on the cheek as a payment. 

“Well, looks like we’re having a night in,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s blanketed shoulder. 

Aziraphale suddenly made a distressed motion and mouthed the words “oh no, dinner.” 

“It’s ok, angel, we can go to dinner any and every day after this one. We have the rest of time, ‘member?” Crowley lifted his head to shoot Aziraphale a smile, yet again*, before reassuringly rubbing his arms up and down Aziraphale’s back and sides. 

*Like a lovesick fool, which is exactly what he is. 

\---------------------------------------------

The next morning, Crowley woke up to an armful of warm angel. Not the worst way to start a day, in fact, if Crowley could wake up every morning like this, he would. 

He kissed the top of the blond curls nestled into him as he realized that he can do just that. For eternity. After a brief shuffling of limbs and sheets, Crowley was now face-to-face with Aziraphale, who was rubbing his eyes sleepily. Thanks to superhuman strength and a miracle or two, Crowley had successfully moved them both to the bedroom nestled in the flat upstairs. 

Well, if you could even call it a bedroom. 

It is really only a bedroom insofar as it has a bed and it is a room. There were books everywhere, old clothes stuffed into a closet, and a lamp that looked like it was a century out of date. But for all intents and purposes, it was a bedroom. 

Aziraphale’s hand rested on Crowley’s cheek and began to rub it gently. 

“Crowley-” Aziraphale stopped at the sound of his voice, still as scratchy as it was yesterday if not worse. 

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own. “Maybe it’s best if we try not talking for a little while, hm?” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips and nodded before pretending to zip up his mouth and throw away the key. Crowley chuckled and was suddenly hit with a mischevious thought. Old habits die hard, as they say. 

Aziraphale had been able to tell Crowley the night before, in as little words as possible, that despite his current ailment, the bookshop would have to open. A very credible bookseller was coming in to make a trade and with it being such a fragile and new alliance, Aziraphale insisted rescheduling was out of the question. As the luck of the devil would have it, the seller just so happened to be deaf and Aziraphale had picked up sign language a few decades back, so no talking necessary. 

After a few more minutes and soft kisses later, they were reluctantly leaving the warmth of the bed. Unable to go to the cafe down the street for breakfast like they usually would, a quick miracle produced a plate of chocolate croissants, still steaming as if they had just come out of a heavenly oven. 

Crowley was still leafing through yesterday’s newspaper and sipping his tea when Aziraphale polished off the last croissant and made his way downstairs to open up shop. Crowley closed the newspaper and went to the bedroom to fix up the bed and get dressed. All of this was done with a quick snap of his fingers, anyways, but there was something comforting in at least half doing it like humans. 

Crowley smiled at the bedsheets and thought back to the first time he laid eyes on the blue tartan nightmare. 

_ You have a bed, right?  _ Crowley panted between sloppy kisses. 

_ Er- yes.  _ Aziraphale had answered after a long pause. 

_ Hm, doesn’t sound too convincing.  _

_ No, no, I assure you I have one.  _

A snap. 

_ Did you just miracle one up right now?  _ Amusement dripped off of Crowley’s every word. 

_ … No.  _

_ Oh, angel, don’t be shy. “Eager” is a good look on you.  _

By the time Crowley made his way downstairs, there were two or three customers dithering about while Aziraphale searched for his most tradeable tomes for the seller. Perfect. 

Crowley had added “slinking around the bookshop” to his list of daily activities and as such learned exactly what kind of customers Aziraphale did not like. He didn’t like the ones that went too close to his pristine collection of Wilde first editions, or ones that loudly chewed their gum, or the ones who asked too many questions, or the ones who brought their children in and let them loose to terrorize everyone in the store (including Aziraphale), or anyone remotely interested in actually purchasing a book. And he especially didn’t like customers who were loud and disruptive in any way. 

So, really, Aziraphale didn’t like any of his customers. This made Crowley’s plan easier. 

Crowley weaved his way into the shadows and came upon a young man looking intently at the original manuscript of ‘Hamlet’ that Aziraphale kept on display. An aspiring actor, Crowley found after digging around in the man’s head for a moment. 

“Your suspicions are correct,” Crowley said, startling the man a little. “That’s the real deal.” 

“Really?” Eyes crept back over to the case. “How on Earth did it end up here? In a dusty old bookshop in Soho?” 

“I hear the owner might be a descendant,” Crowley said, nodding over toward Aziraphale. “Rumor has it, he’ll give it to an actor who can prove himself worthy.” 

The man gave Crowley an incredulous look, to which Crowley put his hands up, palms facing the man. “Honest. Told me himself. ‘It’s priceless,’ he told me. ‘Might as well give it to a young chap with the right gusto.’” 

“And what does one have to do to ‘prove’ themselves?” Hook. Line. And. Sinker. 

“Well, I’d reckon you just have to give him a taste of your acting.” 

The man’s eyes brightened up just as Crowley heard the shop bell ring. The seller has arrived. Oh, this was going to be good. 

“You mean like a soliloquy?” The young man was removing his jacket, now, ensuring that this was going to be a performance no one in the bookshop was prepared for - least of all Aziraphale. 

Crowley mouthed “perfect” to the man before taking his jacket and making a shooing motion to the middle of the shop, where there was an empty space free of bookshelves. 

The man took a deep breath and began, “Ay, Edward will use women honorably. Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all-” 

This was even better than Crowley could’ve imagined. He was doing Henry VI, Part 3: Act 3, Scene 2. The longest soliloquy in any Shakespeare play. As the man started speaking, Aziraphale’s head shot up. He looked at the actor with a puzzled expression and then caught Crowley’s eye. Puzzled turned to suspicion which turned to accusatory. Crowley did his best innocent shrug and turned his eyes back to the show.

“And yet, between my soul’s desire and me, the lustful Edward’s title buried-” 

Crowley could see the wheels turning as Aziraphale smiled at the seller, who at the moment was still blissfully unaware that the shop behind him had been turned effectively into The Globe theater on a much, much, much smaller scale. 

Aziraphale had three options: he could pardon himself from the seller, who was right in the middle of telling his riveting backstory that was just getting to the wretchedly sad part, and yell at the actor; he could use a miracle to get the customer out of the shop and onto the street, confused as to where he was or what he was just doing; or he could make threatening eyes at the demon that caused all of this. 

The first one wouldn’t work out as Aziraphale couldn’t even muster a “hello” to the customers that had come in that morning, let alone shout at someone to leave. In addition to him being much too polite to interrupt the seller during such a tragic tale. The second one wouldn’t work, either, because as of late, Aziraphale was trying to use fewer miracles* so as not to attract any heavenly attention. And the last option wouldn’t work because it was clear from his poorly hidden smile that Crowley was enjoying this scene too much to stop it. 

*Save for, apparently, anything relating to food i.e., the convenient croissants this morning. 

“Flattering me with impossibilities. My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much, unless my hand and strength could equal them-” 

At this point, the seller had noticed Aziraphale’s distracted stare and began turning his head to see what he was looking at with such horror and annoyance when Aziraphale stopped him with a soft tug on his shoulder and a winning smile. He signed for the seller to “go on” and tried to look less put-out. 

But the actor was getting louder, now, clearly trying to grab Aziraphale’s full attention in an attempt to procure the manuscript. 

Crowley, at this point, was just barely holding back his giggles when he spotted a woman with a child no more than four or five-years-old perusing the shelf next to him. With a snap, a book fell directly in front of the toddler, effectively bringing her to tears. 

In the middle of trying to attend to the seller with a now-crying baby and a loud amateur all while simultaneously being mute against his will, Aziraphale looked like he was ready to kill. The crying grew into screeches and the actor grew louder as a counter, trying desperately to get Aziraphale to look at him. 

“And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought!” 

With a deep sigh that clearly said “That’s it,” Aziraphale snapped and the bookshop was suddenly empty and silent. The “Open” sign turned to “Closed.” 

Crowley could no longer hold back his laughter. 

“Oh, Aziraphale, you should’ve seen your face! I thought for sure you were going to smite that young actor man on the spot, you-” Crowley continued his laughter, almost doubling over in tears. After a few breathless moments, Crowley risked a glance up and saw Aziraphale standing with his arms crossed and looking, well, less than enthusiastic. 

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asked, despite knowing very much what was wrong. 

Without a word, Aziraphale grabbed his scarf and an umbrella and walked swiftly out the door, shutting it with a slam, and leaving Crowley in an eerie silence, the echo of his laughter still bouncing off the old walls. 

_ Shit.  _ Crowley thought. Sure, he had planned for all of this to happen, but it was just meant in good fun. He knew Aziraphale couldn’t talk and was unable to pass up the opportunity to take advantage. 

Had it gone a little too far? Yes. Should he have maybe not caused such a chaotic scene during what was obviously an important business transaction that Aziraphale genuinely cared about? Probably. Did he just lose the best thing that has ever happened to him simply because he couldn’t pass up something as trivial as a  _ prank _ ? Oh, Go- Sa- Somebody, he hopes not. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

An hour and a half went by* before the shop bell dinged, alerting Crowley to Aziraphale’s return. 

*Well, according to Crowley, one hour, 34 minutes and 17 seconds had gone by

Crowley immediately rushed from the back to the front of the shop, catching Aziraphale as he was hanging up his coat. He waited as Aziraphale straightened out his jumper and smoothed his pants down before Aziraphale looked up and with a stern face said, “Crowley-”

It had lost all scratch from before and was clearly back in full swing, which meant Crowley was going to have to be fast. 

“Aziraphale! Your voice is back - cheers. But before you reem me out, I have something to say.” Crowley took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, angel. I really am. I meant it as a small prank, I didn’t think it was going to go as far as it did. I told the young man that the ‘Hamlet’ was real and that if he performed well enough for you that you’d be so inclined as to let him have it. I didn’t realize he was going to pick the bloody longest god damn soliloquy old Bill wrote. Who even has Henry VI, Part 3 memorized, anymore? I thought he’d go more for a line from Romeo & Juliet or, you know, one of those other sad ones. And the baby crying was probably overdoing it just a little, but I had thought that with you unable to speak and the seller not being able to hear anything  _ anyway _ , it wouldn’t be a problem. I know that was an important meeting for you, so I tracked down the seller while you were gone and was able to talk down his prices without a trade because I know you hate giving away your books and I just paid for them myself. And I went out to that bakery you like over by my place in Mayfair and picked up one of everything and brought back a bottle of my 1949 Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru’s that I’ve seen you eyeing up every time you come over. Please, Aziraphale, don’t be mad at me. I’m really, really sorry, I’ll make it up to you for the rest of the year - the decade, even! Just… just please don’t leave angry like that, again.” 

At this point, Crowley had gone on for quite some time and had managed to get himself very worked up. He could feel the tears welling up and, so as not to make them fall, closed his eyes toward the end. Which is why he was shocked when he suddenly felt soft hands cup his face. 

Crowley leaned into the touch and opened his eyes. He wasn’t met with the anger he had seen earlier, but rather a tender smile and forgiving eyes. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered. 

Something about hearing that small, three-word phrase after Crowley had convinced himself that he’d screwed up so royally that he’d never hear it, again, pushed him just over the edge he was tiptoeing on. 

Aziraphale smoothed his fingers under Crowley’s eyes, catching the tears as they fell. 

“My dear, there’s no need to cry. Shhh, come here,” Aziraphale pulled Crowley onto his shoulder and carded through the copper strands that were stuck to Crowley’s forehead. “I forgive you.” 

Crowley, at this point, was sniffling and blubbering like an idiot, but at last, relaxed into Aziraphale’s embrace. “I love you, Angel. I’m so sorry.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s quite alright, Crowley. I know you’ve been getting a tad restless with no more orders from Hell after 6,000 years.” Aziraphale placed his fingers on Crowley’s chin and moved him so that they were facing once again, still caught up in each other’s embrace. “But please, maybe try your tricks on someone at the park? Or perhaps eve strangers just  _ outside _ of my bookshop?” 

“Didn’t want to leave you,” Crowley mumbled. It was a dumb excuse, but an honest one. 

“Oh, you silly demon, I’m not going anywhere. You  _ can _ leave me alone for a few hours with the guarantee that I’ll be waiting right here for you,” Aziraphale still had that tender smile on his face that caused Crowley to melt. 

“I know,” Crowley sniffled. “I just… I love you  _ so much _ , Aziraphale. You really scared me when you left earlier.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, putting on a more playful tone. “How could I not be a little upset at some random young person bursting into a 71-line horror in the middle of my shop while Lawrence told me about his childhood tortoise dying by choking on a ripped page from Death of a Salesman?” 

“Is  _ that _ what he was telling you about?” Crowley asked, smiling now.

“You know, I quite think my sign language might be just a touch rusty,” Aziraphale had now pulled Crowley’s forehead back in to rest against his own and they burst into giggles. It took almost no effort at all for Crowley to pull Aziraphale up and into a chaste kiss on his lips, and then his nose, and his cheeks, and his ears, and his forehead, and his eyelids, and back to his lips. 

“I really do, you know,” Crowley murmured against Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“Do what, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Love you.” 

“Unfortunately, I feel the same,” Aziraphale replied, smiling. Crowley lightly batted at his arm before grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the back room. “Now, what’s this about a 1949 Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru?” 

“Only the best for my angel.” 

“Oh, so now I’m  _ your _ angel?” 

“Aziraphale, I don’t think you’ve ever been anything but.” 

The rain picked back up that night, pattering on the windows of a quaint little bookshop in Soho, where an angel and a demon sat snuggled up on a very old, tattered couch, drank their expensive wine, ate their sweet pastries, and exchanged equally sweet glances, touches, and kisses. 

Presumably for the rest of eternity.


End file.
